


Evolution

by lamardeuse



Series: Getting To Know You [8]
Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-05
Updated: 2010-05-05
Packaged: 2017-10-09 07:53:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/84766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lamardeuse/pseuds/lamardeuse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series to accompany Season Two of SGA. Part Eight: Conversion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Evolution

**Author's Note:**

> Please note: rating refers to overall series rating. Individual parts may carry a lower rating.
> 
> Please see the end notes for additional warnings.

In the second half of John’s senior year, a new transfer student arrived from California.  His name was Miguel and he was tall and lean and cinnamon-skinned and John, who’d always thought of himself as fairly level-headed, fell in love with him almost instantly.

It wasn’t only that he was handsome, though since John was seventeen that definitely helped.  Miguel’s eyes were the deep, rich brown of sun-warmed chocolate, and his hands were older than the rest of him, square and competent.  His hair was as black as John’s but close-cropped and bristly, making no concessions to current fashion.  He was looked on with suspicion by the guys John hung out with because he showed no interest in joining the football team or the soccer team or—anything, really.  He was aloof and cool and spent his time riding around on his skateboard.  The rumor swiftly spread that he was a conceited asshole, that Arizona wasn’t good enough for him. 

Within two weeks, he was hanging out with John.  Within a month, they were virtually inseparable.  John had no idea how it had happened; he’d never had problems making friends, but he realized now that his friendships up to this point had been shallow, surface attachments.  This was something new, something deep and quietly powerful like gravity. 

Most of the Hispanic kids from Davis-Monthan were the sons and daughters of techs and ground crew, but Miguel’s dad was an officer, so it was understood that he was welcome at the house.  They didn’t end up spending a lot of time there, though; after all, John was enrolled in four hundred different extracurricular activities because it kept him the hell out of the house.  Instead, they spent most of their days outside, soaking up the sun and driving around Tucson in John’s third-hand Firebird.  Miguel taught him to skateboard and laughed at his pathetic attempts at one-eighties until the day that John managed his first one without wiping out.  The thrill of seeing the radiant grin on that face meant more to him than staying upright. 

There were times when he was sure Miguel felt the same way, but he had no experience with this, and besides, it was a terrible risk to even be thinking about it.  He was headed for college in the fall, and after that he was joining the Air Force.  He had to make a choice. 

But still, there were times when he thought it might be worth it to feel that grin against his mouth.

And then Miguel asked out Beth Kochanski, a girl John had dated (and dumped, gently) in junior year.  John spent the whole night thinking about the two of them together, picturing Miguel’s square, dark hands on her winter-pale skin, and as he drifted in and out of fitful sleep he imagined those hands splayed on his chest and his belly, striping his skin with heat.

The following Monday John asked out Suzanne Radcliffe, who was a cheerleader and always smiled at him when he came off the field.  John felt a twinge of guilt when she accepted with badly concealed excitement, but he wasn’t selfless enough to back out. 

He needed to grow up, that was all.

Late that night he heard a knock against his window.  He opened it to find Miguel standing there, color drained from his taut, beautiful features by the moonlight.

John went to turn on a lamp, then removed the screen and hauled him inside.  They stood staring at one another for a long moment until Miguel’s gaze shifted to the wall.  “Oh, man,” he said softly, the need for quiet making his voice sound fond, “you are such a _gringo_.”

John blinked and turned.  Oh.  “What’s wrong with Johnny Cash?” he whispered, turning back. 

Miguel shook his head, still smiling.  “Nothing.” 

John shifted his feet.  “Was there, um—”

“You goin’ out with that cheerleader?”  Miguel asked, sobering.

John tensed.  “Suzanne.”

“Yeah.  _Suzanne_.  Cheerleaders are airheads, man.  What’s the matter with you?”

Sudden rage threatening to overwhelm him, John took a step forward.  What right did Miguel have to criticize his choice when he was the one who’d—“She’s a very nice girl,” he gritted, clenching his fists.  “She wants to be a social worker.”

Miguel’s chocolate eyes studied him for what seemed like hours, and then to John’s surprise his expression shifted, shedding the cool, detached mask and edging into something that looked astonishingly like grief.  “Yeah.  You’re right.  Not their fault, huh?”

John’s heart stopped. 

Miguel spread his hands helplessly.  “I want to fly.  You want to fly.  We—we can’t—”

John took another step forward, then another, because the thought that Miguel was as unsure as he was was too much to bear.  When he cupped Miguel’s face in his hands, his pale fingers spread across Miguel’s skin like slivers of the moon.

    
    
    
    
 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

    
    
    
    
 

  
There were days when John thought it would have been better if they got caught, but they were smart and careful and no one ever suspected a damned thing.  They dated girls.  John never went past second base with any of them; he tried not to think about what Miguel was doing on his dates.  On the weekends they skateboarded around the base or played Atari at Miguel’s, and when the snow had melted in the mountains they went camping in Coronado National Forest.

Neither of them knew what the hell they were doing at first, but they learned quickly enough.  Miguel seemed to like pretty much anything, but John really liked it when Miguel spooned up behind him, chest hard against John’s back, one hand jacking him sweet and slow while his cock slid between the cheeks of John’s ass.  John tried to be sensible about it, tried to decide rationally whether he’d regret it more if they did or if they didn’t.  But on their last weekend together, Miguel touched him and for once he couldn’t be rational or smart or careful about it, because Miguel was holding him tight, tight, like he wanted to break him, and God, John _wanted _to be broken.

Miguel might have been young, but his hands were old, and somehow they knew when to push and when to retreat, until John was sobbing, his fists clenching in the sleeping bag, his body begging for something he would never speak of aloud.  And in the morning when he awoke alone, John lay in the tent for hours, trapped against the earth by the force of this new, indescribable gravity.

    
    
    
    
 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

    
    
    
    
 

  
Six years later Miguel was killed during a routine exercise, his F-15 bursting into flame in the middle of the California sky.   John flew to Edwards for the funeral even though they hadn’t kept in touch, figuring he’d be lost in the sea of blue.  He was right about one thing: there was always a big turnout for a fallen comrade, and Miguel Rodriguez’ funeral was no exception.  When he approached Miguel’s parents to pay his respects, however, he was surprised to find they recognized him instantly.  He’d only known their son for a handful of months, but he supposed in a life that only comprised twenty-three years, that short span of time was significant.

Mr. Rodriguez’ eyes were brimming, but Mrs. Rodriguez was oddly calm, as though she’d already shed every tear in her body and been left with a desiccated shell to animate.  John watched her turn slowly and beckon to a young woman he’d noticed earlier.  She looked numb rather than grief-stricken, and she held a small baby in her arms.

John didn’t need to be told who she was; the chocolate-brown eyes of her child were introduction enough.

“I’m so sorry for your loss,” John heard himself say to Miguel’s widow.  “He was a good man,” he added, although John had never known him as a man and never would.  Unable to stop himself, he reached up and brushed two gentle fingers over the baby’s soft, black hair.  Then, nodding to the adults in farewell, he left them to be haunted by their own memories.

    
    
    
    
 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

    
    
    
    
 

  
For someone who was familiar with dichotomies, it took him far too long to realize that there was something else living inside him.  Maybe it was because at first it kept pace with his desires, his unvoiced wish since coming to this place to be faster, stronger, _better_.  Oddly enough, it was a shock of recognition—his pale fingers spread across Teyla’s cinnamon skin, her coiled strength underlying the softness of her lips—that made him aware something was horribly wrong.

He felt it tugging at him as he jogged toward the medlab, felt its incoherent frustration as he fought it.  _You fucked up_, he told it, consciously slowing his pace, through he could still tell it was faster than he could usually manage for long.  _I wanted that a long time ago.  Not any more._

And goddammit, couldn’t he _feel _it start rooting around in his brain, feel a sick, honeyed warmth spreading through him as it found what it was looking for. 

_No_, he thought, trying to suppress the fear he knew would give him away.  _You can’t have that.  That’s mine.  _

He concentrated as hard as he could on projecting an aura of calm indifference both internally and externally as he walked into the medlab.  At least he could be sure that was something the real John Sheppard was good at.

    
    
    
    
 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

    
    
    
    
 

  
He knew Rodney was standing outside his door because the steady chorus of _want want want_ that sang constantly in his veins suddenly rose to a piercing wail.  It took everything he had to remain motionless on the bed and not leap to the door (he was sure he could manage it in one leap now), tear it open and drag Rodney inside like an unsuspecting mouse.  If John was lucky—and if Rodney was smart—he’d turn around and leave.

The door slid open and John sighed; he’d forgotten that Rodney was actually incredibly stupid about some things.  John concentrated on the ceiling, deliberately focusing his senses on that instead of on Rodney.  He could see into the infrared now, because the tracery of water pipes that kept the city’s temperature regulated were glowing faintly under the surface. 

“Colonel?”

John tucked his hands behind his head. 

_Don’t look at him, don’t_—

—_want want want_—

“What can I do for you, Rodney?”

“I, ah, I just thought I’d let you know we’re about to head out,” Rodney said.  John could hear the trace of fear in his voice, and the thought of it simultaneously sickened and excited him.

_Christ, the ceiling, concentrate_—“Don’t forget to send me a postcard.”

John heard Rodney come closer, boots clicking faintly on the floor.  “John, I—”

“You’d better get going,” John rasped.  Words were starting to feel unfamiliar in his throat.

“In a minute.  I want to—”

_You want._  John almost laughed aloud.  Rodney didn’t have a clue what the word meant.  “Rodney,” he said, more firmly this time.  “I’m kind of busy trying not to have a psychotic episode.  Could you maybe speed up the goodbye?”

John felt the bed dip, felt Rodney’s heat right beside him.  He tried to open his mouth to object, but the thing inside him silenced him, constricting his vocal cords as it rushed to the surface.  When Rodney put his hand on John’s shoulder, he was ready.

_Want want need want take havewanthavehaveHAVE_ _—_

“Jesus _Christ_,” Rodney breathed.  John blinked and stared down at him, because somehow Rodney had ended up flat on the bed with John poised over him, muscles straining with the effort of holding him still.  His right hand—god, the fucking _claw_—reached up without his conscious consent and trailed through Rodney’s hair in a macabre imitation of a lover’s caress. 

Rodney shivered, eyes wide.

John got hard.

“Okay,” Rodney said, voice high-pitched and tremulous, “you win.”  He raised a hand and wiggled the fingers in front of John’s face.  “‘Bye, see you soon.”

John lost the battle for control over his arm muscles.  Slowly, slowly he descended until his nose was pressed against Rodney’s hair.  He sucked in a deep breath, inhaling the distinctive scent of Rodney’s terror. 

A soft gasp from the man beneath him startled him back to lucidity.  John drew back and saw that Rodney’s eyes were squeezed shut; his chest was rising and falling rapidly, but overlying the fear scent was something earthier, something astonishingly like—

“You know,” Rodney panted, eyes still closed, “it’s a measure of the colossal unfairness of this galaxy that I have been dreaming about you touching me like this for, for _weeks_, and when it finally does happen you’re _mutating_, I mean, think about it, this is going to severely rewrite my psychosexual mental map—”

“Rodney,” John said as calmly as he could, “please shut up.”

Rodney blinked.  “Oh, God, are you back?  Is that you?”

“It’s me,” John sighed, pushing himself off Rodney, who immediately scrambled off the bed and onto his feet.  “But not for much longer.”

To John’s surprise, Rodney sat back down beside him and laid a hand on his left shoulder.  “Don’t talk like that.  We’re going to get what you need and you’re, you’re going to be fine, do you hear me?”

John felt a smile tug at his lips for the first time in days.  “I hear you.”  He risked a glance at Rodney.  “And thanks.”

“Don’t thank me.  I’m just going along for the ride.”  And with one final squeeze of John’s shoulder, he rose.  “See you soon, okay?”

“Yeah.  See you.” 

Fifteen minutes later he could feel it when the Stargate swallowed Rodney up.

    
    
    
    
 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

    
    
    
    
 

  
Whispers of sound created vibrations that pressed at the surface of John’s skin, alerting him to potential danger.  His eyes popped open, pupils dilating in the darkness as the rest of his body responded to the threat.

Before the primitive fear response could kick in completely, he recognized the sound.  Turning his head, he confirmed his suspicions.  He couldn’t quite remember how to smile, but he would have if he could.

Rodney McKay sat slumped in a chair beside his bed, his head thrown back at an unnatural angle.  He was snoring softly, his hand twitching occasionally as though swatting at nightmarish flies.

John opened his mouth, though it took him a full minute of hard, frustrating concentration before he could speak.  Somehow it seemed appropriate that his first laborious word was Rodney’s name. 

Hey, great.  Give him an hour, he’d whip up a soliloquy.

Rodney’s entire body twitched this time, and his head made it about halfway to vertical before freezing in place.  “Ow,” Rodney gasped.  “Ow, jeez, ow.”  He placed a hand on the back of his skull and used it to push his head the rest of the way up.

John licked dry lips that didn’t seem as thick as they had the last time he’d been conscious.  “Rodney,” he said again, enjoying the way his body obeyed his brain.  It was a refreshing change from the past few days.

“Oh my God,” Rodney murmured, springing from his chair and staggering to the bed, “you’re awake.”

“How—look?”  There, that had almost been coherent.  He wasn’t surprised when Rodney understood him, though.

“How do you look?” Rodney chuckled softly, the sound tinged with hysteria and exhaustion.  “You’re a little blue around the gills, but your hair is still fabulous, if that’s any consolation.  God, John,” and his voice broke completely, sounding as rusty as John’s, “I thought the Wraith had cornered the market on terror, but that was a whole new level, and—”

He trailed off and grabbed at John’s hand, picking it up off the bed and cradling it between both of his.  John’s eyes widened when he saw that his fingers were still largely claws.  He tried to pull away, but Rodney’s grip held fast, surprisingly strong.

“Don’t you fucking dare,” Rodney growled, meeting his gaze fearlessly.  “I don’t care if you’ve got tentacles, you moron.  We almost _lost _you, and now you’re here and you’re getting better and if I want to hold your hand, nobody, not you or Caldwell or the entire U.S. Marine marching band is going to stop me, you got that?”

John meant to say, “I love it when you get all alpha male,” which of course was way too ambitious; all that made it past his disused lips was, “love…you.”

Rodney blinked at him.  John blinked back.

Well.  That worked, too.

Rodney broke into a blinding grin, and John felt that familiar, planetary pull.  This time, though, instead of dragging him down it buoyed him, lifting him skyward.  “Well.  That’s, that’s good,” Rodney said simply.  Then he paused, sobering slightly.  “I’d better go and tell Teyla and Ronon the good news.  Um, that you woke up, I mean.  We promised we’d tell one another as soon as—well.”  Standing, Rodney leaned down and kissed John softly on the forehead.  “Get some more sleep.”

_Yes, Mom_, John thought, feeling Rodney’s solid hands offering his warmth and humanity, feeling Rodney’s gaze watching him in wonder even after he’d closed his eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: death of original character, dubcon situation (not consummated)
> 
> First published September 2005.


End file.
